


A Song of Comment Fics and Randomness

by AngelQueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Cousin Incest, Humor, Multi, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/pseuds/AngelQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what the title says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only Him (Brandon/Lyanna)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Brandon/Lyanna - we could run away and leave all this behind'.

"We could run."

The words hang in the air of her chambers, like droplets of water dripping from the green leaves of trees. She tears her eyes from the crown of flowers that sits on the table to stare at him.

"We are Starks." Her words are simple. "We don't shirk our duty." It's ironic that now she is the one to sound like Ned, like their father.

Brandon doesn't seem to care, though. "Fuck duty." The profanity would be amusing under other circumstances. Still, she doesn't move when he crosses the distance between them, his hands gripping her arms hard. "Duty would have me leave you here for Rhaegar to sniff at your skirts. Duty would have me hand you over to a thickheaded brute like Robert Baratheon." His eyes take on an almost maniac gleam. "Fuck duty," he repeats, only this time it seems more to himself than to her.

Lyanna opens her mouth, though to say what, she never finds out. Before a sound can leave her, Brandon's mouth covers hers. Her eyes widen briefly in surprise, but then they drift closed as her body begins to awaken. It has been so long since Brandon has done this, since he kissed her as a lover rather than a sister.

She’d once been afraid that she would forget what this felt like, but now she knows that she was a fool to worry. Some things a person _never_ forgets. 

Lyanna’s hands come up almost of their own volition, her fingers running through his dark hair, gripping and tugging at the strands as Brandon’s tongue delves into her mouth, claiming and exploring and reminding. Her own tongue follows his, touching and tangling while her mind chants _mine mine mine_.

When they finally break away from each other, breathing heavily and leaning their foreheads against one another, she stares into his grey eyes and says, “Duty would have me throw you out of here right now. Duty would have me hand you over to Lord Tully’s red-haired tart of a daughter.” She smiles somewhat ironically. “Would you have me say ‘fuck duty’?”

There is no hesitation in his answer. “Yes.” He shrugs. “Catelyn Tully’s pretty enough, but I couldn’t care less about her. She’s not you. Let Hoster foist her off on Ned.”

She shakes her head. “Ned wants Ashara Dayne and no other.” 

“Benjen, then.”

Lyanna rolls her eyes, not bothering to say that attempting to offer the youngest son instead of the heir of Winterfell was likely to be taken as an insult by the Lord of Riverrun. Brandon, though, is still deadly serious. “I want you and only you, Lya.”

The offer is tempting, so tempting. Her lips still tingle from their contact with his. Even her breasts prickle beneath her clothing as they press against his chest. She’s always wanted him, ever since she was a little girl. First as a sister wants her adored older brother, then as more, much, much more. She closes her eyes as his fingers skim down her back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Duty would have them give each other to others, to people who couldn’t possibly understand them. Duty would have them part forever.

Sometimes duty does ask too much.

“Where will we go?” she asks in a whisper.

Surprise crosses Brandon’s face, as though he had not truly expected her to say this, but it is swiftly overtaken. He tugs her close again. “Anywhere,” he replies. 

They’re about to betray their house, everything that makes them Starks, but Lyanna can’t bring herself to care anymore. When Brandon kisses her again, even more deeply, and his fingers tug at the stays of her dress, she only cares about him. When he brushes the fabric off of her body, leaving her naked, she only cares about how his eyes caress her with every bit as much devotion as his hands. When he lays her on her bed and buries his face between her thighs, she only cares about his tongue and what it’s doing to the numb that has only ever known his and her own questing fingers. When he climbs on top of her, claiming her as a husband claims a wife, she only cares that she is giving her maidenhead to the one person who deserves it. Not a Dragon Prince, not a Storm Lord, but a man who is as much a wolf as she is a wolf-bitch. When he spills himself inside of her, she only cares for the child that may take root there, _their_ child. A pure direwolf.

She only cares about him.

* * *

Days later, when Rhaegar Targaryen would have claimed Lyanna Stark in the name of an ancient prophecy, she is nowhere to be found. Her brother, the heir of Winterfell, is also gone. 

Robert Baratheon is quick to blame the Dragon Prince, and when Lord Stark comes to King’s Landing to demand the return of his heir and daughter, he is promptly killed by the Mad King. 

Robert’s Rebellion begins and ends as it is meant to, but of Brandon and Lyanna Stark, there is no sign.

Not for many years. Not until the Seven Kingdoms have nearly torn each other apart and three young people return to take them in hand, two dragons and a direwolf. Only then do Brandon and Lyanna Stark return.


	2. She Watched (Arya/Jaime/Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, 'Arya/Jaime/Sansa - voyeurism'.

The first time was an accident.

Arya had been out for hours on the hunt, and had come back covered in the blood of deer, wanting only to clean herself. The muffled sounds of female sighs and moans coming from her sister’s solar had caught her attention and before she could fully process what the sounds might _mean_ , Arya peaked in.

Sansa, the ever-poised, cold Queen in the North, was slumped over on the divan, her dress hiked up past her thighs, her head back, her bosom heaving like the common whores Theon Turncloak used to brag about fucking when Arya was too young to understand what fucking meant. Then, as if that wasn’t shocking enough, seeing her sister so completely unlike herself, she saw just _who_ was making Sansa behave so.

It wasn’t hard to figure out, of course. Who else in Winterfell had a head of blonde hair? Who else was brazen enough to stick his face between Sansa’s legs and try to make her scream?

* * *

The second time she was simply making sure it wasn’t her imagination, or that she hadn’t gone completely mad.

It was after Sansa had decided to retire from a feast, escorted by the head of her Queensguard. While everyone else just bowed or curtsied to their departing queen, Arya narrowed her eyes and slipped unobtrusively out of the great hall, following them at a distance.

It didn’t take long for her to see that they clearly had no intention of going to Sansa’s chambers. Instead, they slipped outside and into the stables. Arya quickened her pace then, thoughts of betrayal swirling through her mind, images of the Kingslayer throwing Sansa over the back of his horse and taking off for the Gods only knew where. She didn’t even have to consciously _think_ about taking hold of the knives she had secreted on her body as she went into the stables after them.

The Kingslayer wasn’t flinging her sister over his horse’s back to make off with her. He seemed quite content to throw her over his saddle, which was in its proper place just outside of his horse’s stall. He already had Sansa’s dress up over her ass, baring her for anyone to see who might come inside. His back was to Arya, but she could see how his trousers were loose. She could see his him grasp Sansa’s hip with one hand and something out of her sight with the other, and then his hips snapped forward.

Sansa’s cry wasn’t one of pain or fear. It was of _pleasure_.

Arya stood in the shadows of the stables, safe in the knowledge that it hadn’t been her imagination, or that she wasn’t going completely mad.

Jaime Lannister really and truly _was_ fucking Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North.

* * *

The nights after that, she was just looking after her sister. Once could never trust a Lannister, after all, especially not one who has changed sides so many times, like the Kingslayer had.

Arya watched them in the hot springs, where Sansa knelt and took the man’s cock in her mouth, sucking and letting him thrust in her mouth until he spilled his seed down her throat. 

Arya watched them in the woods, when Sansa supposedly went for a ride on her horse, but really went to ride the Lannister into the ground.

Arya even watched them in Sansa’s chambers – getting in there was absurdly easy for someone like her. She watched the Kingslayer thrust into her sister, climbing between her thighs like he has a _right_ to.

Arya watched them. She didn’t acknowledge the fact that her fingers dipped into her smallclothes when she did. She didn’t acknowledge that when Sansa’s belly began to swell, the father was a fucking _Lannister_.


	3. Believe (Robb/Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, 'Robb/Sansa, Cat or Ned - He/She cannot believe what he/she is seeing.'

She can’t believe what she is seeing.

Sansa has clung to Robb since she was recovered from the Lannisters, hesitant to let him out of her sight. It has been Robb she has called for when in the throes of her terrible nightmares. She rejected Catelyn’s own attempts to comfort, to soothe, allowing only Robb - and Grey Wind, by default - to touch her. 

Catelyn has tried to be patient with her daughter, tried to be understanding of the horrors she has suffered, and to be honest, she has been consumed with thoughts of her other children - of Arya, unseen by anyone since the Starks were exterminated in King’s Landing, of Bran and Rickon, her babies murdered in their beds by Theon Turncloak. She has been grieving, and that has taken some of her attention from Sansa’s needs, allowing it to fall to her firstborn to see to his sister.

That was her mistake, that has led to this, what she is seeing.

Robb is due to marry one of Walder Frey’s daughters tomorrow - even now, Catelyn has trouble remembering her from all of the others, bastard and trueborn alike - and yet here he is, in the room she is peeking into like a common maid seeking to eavesdrop on her betters, with his sister. 

_Kissing_ his sister.

It is not the kiss a brother should give his sister. Not unless one is a Targaryen.

Their mouths mold to one another, and Catelyn can easily imagine their tongues dueling inside. Hands are running over each other, Robb’s up and down Sansa’s back, Sansa’s up into Robb’s beautiful curls. When Robb pulls back, she can hear Sansa whisper, “Don’t stop.”

She expects Robb to say something about his upcoming nuptials, about not wanting to dishonor Sansa, but clearly they are past that. Instead, Catelyn can only watch as Robb guides Sansa backwards, gently pushing her down on the divan. 

She can only watch as he kneels at her feet, staring up at her with an adoration she has never experienced, not even from Ned in the early bloom of their love.

She can only watch as he pushes Sansa’s skirts up her legs, his fingers caressing the skin of her calves and thighs.

She can only watch as he spreads her legs and presses his face between them.

She can only watch as Sansa throws her head back and moans like a whore.

She should stop them, but she is frozen.


	4. The Dance (Brandon/Lyanna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, 'Brandon/Lyanna - Lyanna seethes over Brandon's lady-loving ways.'

The feast was in full-swing. The wine flowed in abundance. The food was plentiful. Laughter roared through the hall.

From her seat at the high table, reserved for the Starks, Lyanna clutched her goblet tightly, seething. 

Brandon was on the other side of the hall, leaning against the wall while a crowd of women surrounded him, wives, sisters, and daughters of the Stark bannermen. They squealed and simpered at his every word, throwing their heads back in laughter and giving him ample opportunity to peer down their dresses and inspect their teats. Which he was taking advantage of in full.

Lyanna grit her teeth when one of the daughters of Lord-She-Didn’t-Fucking-Care-What-His-Name-Was giggled and laid a suggestive hand on Brandon’s arm. Her hand holding her goblet trembled when Brandon leered at her.

She didn’t know which she was going to kill first – her slut of a brother, or the whore masquerading as a wellborn girl.

Brandon looked up then, seemingly sensing her burning gaze. Their eyes met, grey on grey, and the hall seemed to melt away for a brief moment. For just a second, it was only the two of them, and the way his eyes roved over her body made her feel as though he was stripping her of the fine dress their mother insisted she wear, piece by piece. Then the moment ended and he glanced at the women still surrounding him.

Then his eyes turned back to Lyanna’s and he smirked. He fucking _smirked_.

That was it – she was going to _kill_ him.

“My lady?”

Jarred out of her murder plans, Lyanna looked up to find the son of Lord-Didn’t-Fucking-Care-What-His-Name-Was-Either standing beside her, a friendly smile on his face. “Would you care to dance, my lady?”

She opened her mouth to say decline, wanting to sit in her chair and brood over the many ways she was going to torture Brandon before she killed him, when suddenly, an idea came to her. Glancing briefly in Brandon’s direction, she saw he was still watching her.

Glee rose in her heart. _Two can play at this game, brother._

“Of course, Ser. I’d be delighted.”

She allowed the boy – because he had to be at least a year or two her junior – to lead her out to where many of Winterfell’s guests were already dancing. His hands never strayed anywhere that would be considered improper, but she did allow him to touch her at the waist as they moved to the rhythm of the music. Lyanna danced without missing a step, and kept her eyes on Brandon whenever she could.

She almost laughed as his eyes darkened as he watched her. She had no doubt that Brandon would be paying her a visit tonight.

She would be ready for him, and would be full of reminders of just _who_ he belonged to, and it wasn’t these simpering fools who glided around him like bitches in heat.

Her partner spoke and Lyanna laughed, both at the jape and at Brandon’s glare.


	5. Try (Edmure/Roslin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, 'Edmure/Roslin, she tries so hard to make him forgive her'.

She tries hard to make him forgive her, so hard.

In truth, Edmure knows he shouldn’t blame Roslin for what happened at the disaster that was their wedding. She was bound to obey the wishes of her father, her house. It is hardly any fault of hers that her father’s overblown pride led to the greatest betrayal of the guest rights in written history. 

She is beautiful, and sweet, and a devoted mother to their little daughter. She even names the girl Catelyn, a small defiance of her father and a way to tie the infant to her Tully forbearers. Edmure hears later that the old Frey snarled over the name, tried to bully Roslin into naming the baby Bethany, after her own mother, but Roslin stood up to him.

She tries hard, so hard, and Edmure acknowledges her efforts, does everything he can to be kind to her.

Still, when he looks at her, he cannot help but see the shades of those who were murdered while he took her maidenhead and planted their child in her belly. He sees his sister, her lifeblood pouring from the slash in her throat. He sees his nephew, remembers how his head was dumped into his bed, recalls how they desecrated the boy’s body. He sees the others - Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber, Raynald Westerling, Robin Flint, all of them.

What should have been a celebration, an occasion for joy and alliances, has been irrevocably stained by the murder of his kin and allies. 

Edmure curses Roslin’s kin every day, prays that Eddard Stark takes revenge on the shade of every Frey that he comes across in the shadow world beyond the living. Nothing she does can change the fact that he takes great satisfaction when he hears of the Brotherhood Without Banners killing every Frey they find.

No matter her efforts, he cannot love her, not after what was stolen from him, not when the foundation of everything they have was built upon treachery and murder.


	6. What's Gone Can't Come Back Again (Brandon/Lyanna, Brandon/Catelyn, Lyanna/Rhaegar, Jon/Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "Brandon/Lyanna, Jon/Sansa - Brandon lives, Lyanna doesn't and everyone knows R+L=J. Brandon does his duty and marries Catelyn even though he knows she can never replace Lyanna. Ned raises Jon somewhere other than Winterfell. Everything is fine until Jon meets his beautiful cousin and history repeats itself."

“Promise me, Brandon,” she breathes, her trembling, weak fingers gripping his own with a sudden, unexpected burst of strength. “It’s not his fault… promise me…”

Her breathing grows fainter, and her eyes, her glorious grey eyes that he has always loved to drown himself in, dim and slowly shut. A moment passes, and then she is still, leaving Brandon standing in the room, his only companions the overwhelming scent of blood and the squalling babe in his arms.

Lyanna is dead. His Lyanna. All that is left is this child, Rhaegar’s bastard get. 

His sword is heavy on his belt. It would be so easy, a dark voice hisses in the recesses of his mind. So easy. Just hold the brat in one hand and pull his sword with the other. It would be over in a single swing of his blade.

_Promise me, Brandon._

He hates Rhaegar Targaryen, would kill him gleefully if Robert hadn’t beaten him to it. But as much as the boy is Rhaegar’s, he’s also Lyanna’s. The baby has a thin cap of dark hair, Stark hair. His eyes are blue, as all babies are, but somehow Brandon knows they will be Stark eyes.

This is Lyanna’s child. Lyanna’s son. A boy who should have been his.

_Promise me, Brandon._

The scars on Brandon’s neck burn.

* * *

“Take him, Ned,” Brandon says later. He holds out the infant. “I… I can’t…” It’s strange, to be so tongue-tied, but Brandon has been under a haze since he joined his brother and the others at King’s Landing, bearing Lyanna’s corpse and her son.

Ned stares at the boy, then carefully cradles him in his arms. Perhaps he is drawn to the boy because he is Lyanna’s, Brandon thinks, or maybe he’s just aware of the pitifully few options they have. Robert has made no secret of his loathing for the boy, and Brandon knows it’s only a matter of time before Robert remembers that he is King of the Seven Kingdoms now and can easily hire someone to do away with the infant. 

He doesn’t care that the boy is Lyanna’s, that Lyanna’s final words were pleas for the boy’s life.

Brandon cares. He cannot stand the sight of the boy, a constant reminder of all that he has lost, but he still cares. So he begs Ned to take him.

Thankfully, Ned agrees.

* * *

Brandon weds Catelyn Tully, just as his father had meant for him to do, no matter how much he wishes otherwise. She is pretty, all beautiful auburn hair and blue eyes. She is nothing like Lyanna.

He beds her, claims her maidenhead, and thinks of dark hair and grey eyes. 

It’s possibly a miracle that he doesn’t come with Lyanna’s name on his lips, but instead does so in silence.

* * *

Ned takes the boy with him to the Vale, where he serves as Jon Arryn’s steward. Ravens pass between them on a regular basis, and Ned occasionally mentions the boy. Jon, Ned calls him, Jon who is all Stark, just as Brandon thought, hoped he would be. There is no hint of Rhaegar in him, or so Ned claims. 

Brandon thanks the gods for such a gift. He isn’t sure if he could bear thinking of Rhaegar being present in the boy he forced on Lyanna.

* * *

Brandon does his duty to his wife, and gives her five children. The boys all favor their mother in their coloring, with red curls and bright eyes. Only in their features or personalities is there any hint of him, in Robb’s strong jaw, in Bran’s love of horses, in Rickon’s headstrong stubbornness, and in Hoster’s temper. 

Their second child, though, their daughter… 

Sansa is Lyanna reborn. Brandon hears the servants whisper it as the years pass. Dark hair, grey eyes, a willful independence that Catelyn despairs over.

“She’ll never make a good match if she continues like this,” Catelyn tells him. “You shouldn’t indulge her.”

His father doted on Lyanna when they were children, let her run wild, or so Old Nan tells him. Brandon wasn’t at Winterfell often during Lyanna’s early years. Brandon knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. When Sansa demands to learn to ride a horse bareback, he concedes. When she wants a sword of her own and the training to use it, he teaches her himself.

Brandon is helpless in the face of a girl who has brought Lyanna back to walk the earth again.

* * *

Ned doesn’t visit Winterfell for many years, nearly sixteen, in fact. He is content with busying himself running the Vale, and when Jon and Lysa Arryn’s marriage never results in a living child, Jon names Ned his heir. The Starks will hold the Vale in truth when the old man dies.

Ned comes North for Robb’s seventeenth birthday. He brings the boy with him. Brandon isn’t unaware of the stares that the boy draws, in fact stares at him himself. Ned was right, he is all Lyanna. He can make out nothing of the Targaryens, and even nearly two decades after the fact, that still fills him with some vicious sense of satisfaction. Rhaegar’s bastard has nothing of him, but instead is all Lyanna.

These are the thoughts that fill and content him, and as a result, he doesn’t see what is coming until it actually happens.

* * *

It’s innocuous enough, at first. Smiles and courtesies shared over a feast. Brandon is too busy noticing that Catelyn is breathing a sigh of relief that Sansa showed up in a dress for the celebration, and not trousers and a tunic to see the way their eyes linger on each other in interest.

There is no wreath of ice roses for Jon to bestow on Sansa, no tournament for him to show off in, but when Brandon sees his daughter and his nephew racing their horses out of the gates of Winterfell, their laughter on the wind, something inside of him turns to stone.

When they return, their clothes rumpled and their cheeks flushed from more than the bite of the chilly air, he is waiting for them.

The scars on Brandon’s neck burn.


End file.
